This winter sabbatical thing is nice. Thank you Florida, Key West & all you ‘keysies’ that made getting older so much fun. The free roaming fowl and the cockfights brought back [old] memories.
This winter sabbatical is going much faster than I had hoped and it is time to get back to Texas and work on the poetry book due to release in April.
Adding to our poets of the future, laureates in waiting, aka not yet notorious composers today I present to you Typhanie Tijerina- Hill. No we are not related as far as I know but if she were to win a Pulitzer or become a future Poet Laureate that might change.
Typhanie is currently a student at the University of Texas at Tyler studying Chinese, Literature and History.
Prior to UT she attended Trinity Valley Community College where she studied theater, literature and history.
Typhanie is also a wife and a mother. Anyone who has juggled such roles knows the hardships and the rewards. It takes an iron will and an artist’s heart and that is a kick- *ss combination.
I chose A Willow Among the Maple because (for me) it reflects humility and strength… Coming to terms with who we are and accepting our limitations without conceding defeat.
By Typhanie Tijerina-Hill
I am a willow among the Maple
I weep while they pour out syrup so sweet
I am droopy and they are strong
I fight for survival while they grow with ease
My roots are planted deep
But are small compared to their large core
They hover over me mocking my fragile limbs
I know I will never be as big as the maple
But I don’t have to be
***
I really, really liked this poem because it left me nodding my head and thinking…
Sometimes it’s like reaching for the stars on a cloudy night. But if we keep reaching, groping into the unseen – maybe one night the clouds will pass and maybe, just maybe we will find a star in our hand. Perhaps not the biggest or the brightest star – but it will be the best star because this one will have our name on it.
Yes, I wax poetic on occasion.
This week I’m not featuring renowned poets.
This week let’s look at future poets or should I say not yet notorious composers.
The following poem was taken from
A simple cover for a deep book.
It was written [and I quote] “by MIT students, for MIT students.”
Of the 20+ poems in this little chapbook I chose Almost by Julia Kimmerly.
(I hope 🤞🏼 this links to the free PDF file.)
Ahh you thought MIT was a boring technical institute with some weird shorthand logo that has occult meanings. Maybe that was my line of thinking? No, all I can think of is the Bee Gees so y’all go ahead and read while I sing.
And the lights alllll weennnt out in Massachusetts…
Julia Kimmerly / 2013
it’s been a while since the smile of a pen has styled my page,
ages since mental meandering, penned pondering, wistful wandering
wondering about mysteries, histories, blistering bliss stories
of sinister misters, kissed-hers, twisted listening and
tea: a small plea from me to indulge.
today is a break from the intensity.
it makes a bulge in the tense immensity of stress,
incensed duress.
Dad’s mom’s locket rests in my palm,
her psalms next to his curbed proverbs:
once begun half done
measure twice, cut once
a stitch in time saves nine
but what about when the second half is baffling,
twice doesn’t suffice,
and the stitches come undone
like poorly hitched horses looking for fodder?
what about:
everything in moderation
variety is the spice of life
everything is relative—
relative to what?
it’s all the same insane struggle,
trouble bubbling over from one night to the next.
fight the biting light, the tightening sight as eyelids sigh
sleep is nigh
the group droops with equations left unsolved
greek letters in an unresolved war
equality separating the horror.
symbols swapping sides and constants barring pi’s.
Intensity Has a Taste For Pain.
this feast of information has ceased to be fun.
the yearning of learning gone,
no longer appealing.
the feeling of prolonged gratification
empty.
the anticipation not
tempting.
teachers hold the treat just out of reach,
each time bringing me forward
toward the future, it’s
badder, better, bigger, baller, butter from the stick
but if I don’t get out of this mean fiendish routine—
color outside the confining outline—
i won’t survive.
my thriving creativity of young,
now stifled insensitively,
clung to by what grip I have left.
i want to rip away from the
numerical masochism
hysterical workaholism
compensation for lack of sensation.
i have forgotten how to live,
rotten, now oblivious to what reality does,
sacrificing who I am now, or was, for who I could be.
but that to-be she is only one possible me
a successful breast full of delicious accomplishments.
yes, enticing time now is dimes and cents to my future dollars
a smaller price to pay for a greater later
a relentless satyr of ambition
searing volition to steer myself straight to the top.
but I don’t want to wait and be
a fated one-sided, dull-minded, blind signer
i want to be alive.
strive for more than better letters and wonder numbers
get out of this slumber and
find time for stars and clouds and dimension counting
Mars and How’s and existential doubting
the so-bad-its-good idea talks
the late-night, fate-type of walks
more coffee shops and railroad stops
beer stein hops and sly eaves drops
i want to tout the now and
scout the crowd for smiles and Guastavino tiled lies
(he knows woe woven into faulted vaults).
i want to drive and be driven.
And given the chance, yes i will.
but until the game is won, tassel hassled and the famous cap flung,
i have to persevere
buckle down for my career
gear up for my dear job.
study, read, feed my mind until it wants to be fed.
beg, plead, lead my mind until it wants to be led.
heed my mind until it is ahead, not overrun.
until all is said and done.
In the first portion of my annual Indie report I shared a few things I have learned regarding support, reviews and social media. I like the number five so if you’re interested I’ll share a couple more. I believe I left off at #3 in Lessons Learned. Since inquiring minds really want to know “how many books are you selling and how much money are you making?” We’ll start #4 with sales.
# 4 Sales: This is like comparing apples to oranges or beets to hamburgers. To simplify it allow me to use e- books and a twelve month period because a year ago I had maybe four titles available, all e-books exclusive to Amazon. Today I have about sixteen, most available wherever books are sold.
Don’t say wow yet. That number includes several books that were combined or joined and counted as a new title. I.e. The Rage Trilogy, The Perpetual Series and Interior Verse/ Pose Prose & Poems. Also Disturbed Affections was created for Barnes & Noble which combines The Perpetual Series and Dour Number Four. Price trials were done and settled between 99¢ and $2.99.
For apples to apples sake March 2012 Amazon e-book sales were roughly about $5.80 with paper books way outselling them. March 2013 sales were about 50x that with very few paper books being sold. That’s two hundred and ninety sneering tight-lipped little Washington’s! Greenbacks baby! 
You can say wow now but hold that victory dance — I need to tell you something.
Sales over those twelve months were like a bipolar Bohemian. They were all over the place, feast and famine, up and down. Whew! It made me dizzy, now I know that’s just how it goes.
Looking at statistics is supposed to help me understand Bohemians’ such patterns and utilize them for … I don’t know but the good news is I made a few dollars. Woo-hoo – go ahead, dance with me.
#5 Stats and Ranks: OMG poke me in the eye! My website stats? I sort of saw a pattern of increased visitors equaled increased sales but it could’ve been my mind playing tricks on me. Example October hits were good and November sales increased. Why, how, what or who made it happen? Was it a tweet, a post or a random recommendation? I suspect it was a combination of factors or a cousin. I have lots of cousins.
Visitors: My door is always open and people apparently come and go while I’m in the shower or taking a nap. I am supposed to focus on unique visits, unique sites and unique referrers. [sigh] Okay. Most visits occur around 3:00 PM CST. Top referrers are direct requests followed by Google, Bing, A porn site I know nothing about (I swear!) and some from WordPress — that is probably fellow bloggers. Thank you all very much. See how boring data is?
I prefer to look at search string results. Search strings are interesting because you can see what query people use to arrive at your site. My favorites are “who is Janna Hill, “who the hell is Janna Hill”, “is Janna Hill really Janna Hill”, “Janna Hill + Symphony Angel, “is Janna Hill married to Joe Hill?” and “big ugly feet”. Really?! Someone searched “big ugly feet” and arrived here. [scratches head] Okay. Moving on…
Ranking: I use Amazon’s author tools. Just login and click rank. I occasionally break above the 12,000 overall in e-books. I know that sounds pitiful but when you came from ranking 500,000 to 12,000 I call that progress. C’mon, let’s dance again.
I may never be in the top ten or even the top 100 but I’m singing the Jefferson theme song and movin’ on up. I don’t want a deluxe apartment in the sky but I will take a small piece of some humble pie with a cup of coffee please.
The data above was gathered from March 2012- March 2013 reports. Yes I know we just entered July — I would make a great government employee, huh?! It has been (and is) one hell of a ride and I am truly grateful.
This is me. Not me writing on behalf of someone else. Not me pretending to be someone else. Not me wishing I was someone else. This is just me in all my rags of glory.
Addendum: Though it’s too early for me to offer a report or an opinion I can tell you I am seeing sales now at Apple. Maybe someday I’ll do an update and compare them to oranges. Ahh, I crack me up.
If I were to call them by name they would not reply.
See, they are wild and untamed without need of a name for (in truth) they answer to no one.
Sun Set on Oxalis
My grandmothers are deceased but I still think of them often. As a matter of fact thinking of them prompted this post. I was sitting here nibbling on a handful of wild clover (Oxalis to be exact) and thought first of my maternal grandmother. I loved them equally yet they were as different as night and day.
It’s funny how certain things send us flying back in time where we awake to find ourselves strolling down memory lane.
My mom’s mother was somewhat prissy and constantly scolding me for eating wild things. If she didn’t know what it was I wasn’t allowed to eat it. “Mustang grapes and blackberries are okay but everything else is poisonous.” she warned. I didn’t care much for either and I generally ignored her warnings, tasting every berry and leaf I came across. It drove her to fits.
Once she threatened to tan my hide if I ate from the Black Persimmon tree behind the house. I of course did exactly that when she wasn’t looking. The soft shiny berries were too irresistible. To my surprise she wasn’t angry; I suppose she laughed so hard she made herself tired after seeing my lips and teeth stained black.
My paternal grandmother on the other hand would cook, can or consume just about anything that grew, moved or acted like it wanted to bite. (Yes, that one)
After I had settled down and started a family she would sometimes visit. We would walk through the woods in search of an undiscovered herb or animal. She’d scan the ground for changes and jab her cane in every hole until a rabbit ran out and she’d say, “Lookie there Jennavenay- there goes supper.” And we would laugh.
We ate a lot of wild vegetation throughout our years together. We didn’t know the benefit or threat or even the name of most of the wild plants but we learned to avoid the ones that tasted bad. Our walk always ended with her sitting by a large Oak and saying, “This is how I want to die. Like an old Indian I’m gonna set down against this tree and just pass away.” She wasn’t an Indian and that isn’t how she left this world. But that’s how it goes. Life, bittersweet like the Oxalis.
Just in case I missed telling one person in the far reaches of Idonwannaherit (which is my husband’s country of origin) April is National Poetry month.
And guess what?! I was informed this morning that I have been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize Award. I’m thinking OMG! Am I so special they called me early? Turns out it was an April Fool’s joke. Damn you cruel jokester and may the winning of Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes forever be just out of your reach.
With the fool’s business out of the way I’d like to talk about Plath.
Not because of her life’s work. In all honesty it is/was her chronic obsession with death that compels me.
In reading Lady Lazarus with or without knowing Plath’s history I could have imagined a poet scribbling thoughts that were just that- thoughts.
But the [reportedly] last two pieces she wrote and the two small children she left behind. I became strangely fanatical.
photo by Rollie McKennaI tried hard not to judge her as a person and to focus only on the writing but I fell short. History, rumor and suspicion clouded my judgment.
When I read Nick and the Candlestick I imagined premeditated recklessness beyond her own ending.
In Balloons all I could see was her surveying her child at play – a child she would [knowingly?] soon leave motherless.
And in Edge… it would have been eerily sufficient without knowing Sylvia Plath Hughes had made for herself a gas chamber.
In doing so she had eliminated the need for an executioner so I became her judge, juror and examiner.
It wasn’t enough for me to obsess over the tragedy I insisted my husband partake of the mind numbing fixation.
His first response was, “You know I don’t read poetry. I don’t read anything that doesn’t have live game, a stock symbol or a machining program written on it.”
To that I handed him a beer and smiled, “Okay. I’ll read it to you and you tell me what you think.”
He agreed, though once I finished reading Edge aloud he held out his hand and ordered me to give it to him.
I graciously obliged.
Here it is in its entirety. Our discussion will follow.
Edge by Sylvia Plath 1963
The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
When he finally looked up I asked, “So what do you think?”
He took a long drink and shrugged, “She obviously wanted to be dead and she’s happy about it.”
“Yes, yes. Go on.” I urged, “What about the scrolls of her toga?”
“Sounds like the Clinton – Lewinsky thing. You know with the stained dress.”
I laughed and he continued. “Here where she says ‘it is over’ means just that – she’s finished.”
“What about the lines ‘each dead child coiled, a white serpent, one at each little pitcher of milk, now empty’ what do you think about that?”
“The Exodus? It sounds like the first Passover and the last plague in Egypt to me.” He looked back at the page in front of him and read,
“She has folded them back into her body as petals of a rose close when the garden stiffens and odors bleed from the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.”
He shook his head and returned the poem, “Did she plan to kill the kids and take them with her? I guess it doesn’t matter- It was fifty years ago, she was mentally ill and she’s glad she’s dead.”
“What about ‘the moon has nothing to be sad about, staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag’ – what are your thoughts on that?” I asked, watching as he became more uncomfortable.
“It sounds like craziness. She was obviously mentally ill. Did you say she stuck her head in an oven?”
I nodded.
“Was it butane or natural gas?”
“I have no idea. Why would that matter?”
“Well one falls and the other rises – natural gas rises. Did she live in town or in the country? If she lived in town it was probably natural gas.”
“She lived in London, a town residence once occupied by Yeats.”
“Hell, it might have been coal fuel.” He paused as if it took added effort to ask the next question. “Did she kill her kids too?”
“No.” I answered.
His face relaxed a bit until I added, “The youngest, a boy named Nicholas hung himself in 2009. The daughter who was less than three years old when it happened went on to become a painter and poet.”
“Dammit! How’s the girl doing?”
“I don’t personally know her but she was still alive the last I heard.”
“Poor thing. Damaged people leave a lot of garbage in their wake. Hopefully she’s not too messed up.”
With that he bent and twisted the empty can indicating the discussion was over.
I mumbled a thank you, delighted I had snagged him into reading a poem yet a little ashamed that I had disturbed him with the past of Sylvia Plath.
Next week maybe I will entice him with a new poet, a living poet.
I’ll choose something lighter, funnier and maybe drag out the frayed old book Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein. The kids and I always enjoyed that one.
I will probably [silently] take a closer look at the works of Ted and Frieda Hughes, dissecting their psyches and torturing myself in the aftermath of Sylvia Plath.
Can you believe I have a solid year behind me in this adventure as an independent author/publisher? My how time flies when you’re having fun.
So what have I learned other than how to type while holding fried chicken in one hand and a biscuit in the other? A lot!
Do I have any advice for beginners? Oh yes indeed I do and my first pearl of wisdom is this: cut the biscuit in half, strip the chicken and make a sandwich. It will be much easier to handle. I would also suggest turning the keyboard over and gently shaking the crumbs loose verses picking between the keys. That tip will save you time and keep your proofreader from returning your manuscript un-proofed with a note that says Get back to me when you’re sober!
I don’t have any real pearls but if you’re interested I’ll be happy to share a handful of pebbles and opinions.
#1 Support: Get some! No man is an island. Editing, proofreading and polishing don’t necessarily mean stripping away your authenticity. Surround yourself with people you can trust, people who are willing to encourage you, offer constructive criticism and be brutally honest when necessary. If your book is your baby prepare it to face the world and get that baby some child support. Lesson: Keep it real even in fiction. Find people you can trust (paid or voluntary) and listen to them.
#2 Reviews: Good reviews are fabulous but they don’t guarantee massive sales. On the other hand bad reviews definitely hurt sales. Responding to bad reviews and personal insults is a no-no. Lighten up, insults can be funny. Learn from the constructive ones and laugh at the assholish ones. Yes, I just made assholish a real word. Not everyone likes spaghetti so what makes you think everyone will like what you dish out? Lesson: There will be haters. Get used to it.
#3 Social Media: I firmly believe in building an online presence and interacting. I said in- ter-act-ing. That means relating to people,not only networking and connecting but talking and occasionally having a conversation. I tend to avoid a couple of the most popular media sites for that very reason. How do you respond to “Buy my book! My book’s on sale!” You say something like “I see you’re from Manhattan. How is the weather there?” And they respond with “Here’s a link to Amazon. Be sure to leave a review.” Lesson: In-ter-act.
I like blogging. I’m not sure how many book sales it has garnered (if any) but I enjoy it. It’s like bloggers are… wow, I don’t know… like they are real human beings or something. Lesson: Blog away. Blogging has zero calories and you meet great people from all over the world. It’s an inexpensive means of travel and sometimes you find the inspiration needed for your next story.
While we are on the topic of blogging allow me to weave in an experience related to marketing. I recently consulted with a couple of PR firms who shall remain nameless. One suggested I buy their book (argh). Um, no. I am looking for someone to create “the buzz” for me — just do it okay?! The only buzz I am motivated to create comes in the aftermath of consuming liquor.
The second person (much more helpful) looked at my social media sites and informed me I was not promoting myself enough. The conversation went like this:
“You’re just there” she explained while politely pointing out I was not utilizing said media properly.
“I’m sorry but one more ‘buy my book-my book’s on sale’ and I may rip the arm off of this chair. I can’t do it that’s why I contacted you special magic guru lady.”
“It’s not that easy anymore. What about your blogger account?” She was scanning search results as we spoke, “Do you have one?”
“Well sure. I posted something about 2013 releases but I’m more comfortable at WordPress.”
“Let me see what you are doing on WordPress… It seems your focus is on photography and just hanging out?”
“Yeah, it’s like a bar/library/art gallery, cool huh? Except they don’t serve drinks. It’s BYOB.”
“That’s fine but you need to squeeze in a pitch directing readers to buy your books.”
“I have a website listing most published works. Just google Janna Hill and you’ll find me.”
“That’s not enough. You’re going to have to get more involved in promoting yourself. You have to get out of your comfort zone.”
“Oops my macaroni is burning. I’ll have to get back to you.”
Lesson: Even for a fee no one will do it all for you. I need to “get out of my comfort zone.” Hell no Maybe I will but if I ever respond to a greeting with “Buy my book. Leave me a review” somebody shoot me please.
*BYOB: bring your own bottle could now mean bring your own book.
This post should have been the Indie update I’ve been planning, giving you all of the gory details about what I’ve learned on this Indie adventure (now having a full year of experience under my belt) but…
I was seriously composing the post meant to share my progress when I diverted my eyes. Did you know you aren’t supposed to stare at the computer screen for more than twenty minutes without looking twenty feet away for at least twenty seconds? It’s called the 20/20/20 rule.
Being the rule devotee that I am [go ahead and laugh if you know me] I looked away and spotted a lovely red Dianthus. 
Of course I had to grab the camera and take a walk…
I spied a red aphid on a yellow Iris. The eye tends to be drawn to these two colors. You didn’t think McDonald’s success came from their fresh delectable burgers did you? Oh, okay.
I suppose the Red Wasp, Nandina berries and Red Tip Photinia are all shades of red but they look kind of orange to me. That may be from staring at the monitor for too long. See what happens when you don’t follow the rules?
I ended my journey with a collection of red shells. 
I didn’t find these on a beach but they were near a body of water. Hmm, now I’m wondering if there might be a body in the water? Or a story in the making…
Seeing Red has nothing to do with the upcoming post regarding my first year as an independent author/publisher, I just thought I’d share this little excursion. On the contrary I’m in the black and all lights are green. It’s a go for another trek. I really will post something in the near future that offers more personal insight until then take care of your eyes.
P.S. I once had a patient with Macular Degeneration who told me she saw the most unbelievable shades of red and that she painted more beautifully than ever just before she went blind.
Here is the official submission for last week’s challenge: My 2012 In Pictures. Hey, I made an effort AND I had a note! If you hurried to get your shots in on time you will be pissed happy to know this: Sara extended the challenge. 😀
The Real Janna Hill in 